Anyone, Anything
by phollie
Summary: You could be so blind for him, if only you were anyone else. / Oswald introspection on Jack. Mild innuendo.


I like writing Oswald being bitter. A lot. And I like writing people observing Jack. A lot. And I like writing Oswald being very bitter as he observes Jack. A lot. That is all.

Lyrics are "Bad News" by Owen.

* * *

**.anyone, anything**

/

_whoever you think is watching you dance from across the room_

_they aren't_

/

You watch him.

You spend most of your time nowadays watching him, because this man, this Jack Vessalius, is a creation designed to be looked at plentifully, to study and pick apart and dissect. He is a vision in gold tonight, his eyes a bright shock of green that glitters every time he smiles or laughs at some unfunny remark a woman on his arm whispers into his ear. When your eyes meet from across the room, it's as if he only sees the very surface of you and nothing underneath, like looking at a painting he doesn't find interesting enough to analyze. But he tries, and he pretends, and sometimes the act is so convincing that even you, with all your quiet cynicism, almost believe it. But it's never enough.

Lacie, on the other hand, looks at you in such a way that it's akin to her trying to pull out a secret from someone's soul with her very gaze. She's magnetic in a way that Jack isn't – she's effortless, fluid, never having to try too hard or smile too wide or appear any more or less of any emotion than what she honestly feels. Tonight, she looks one part curious, one part teasing, and one part sorrowful. The downward pout of her mouth and her heavily lidded stare is the virtual opposite of Jack's flashy grin and doe eyes that drink in the light but reflect none of it. And that, you think, is because Lacie has always been a sort of display of the world, having obtained so many things from this universe that her own existence serves as a catalyst for it. Jack, on the other hand, is more like a stone skipping across water, able to touch the universe but unable to experience it or draw anything from it on his own. As you watch him now, you draw a comparison between him and a statue, something beautiful and sculpted, but something that isn't truly real at all. A picture of life, and one so pretty it could nearly deceive you for life itself.

But you won't be deceived. Sometimes you almost wish you could be, because it would be so much easier that way, and you wouldn't feel that churning in your stomach whenever you stand too close to him, and you wouldn't bite your tongue every time he unbraids his hair and smiles up at the ceiling as he talks about the sun and the stars and Lacie. He wouldn't leave you feeling so dented. You could be just like all the others that moon over him, showering him with love and affection without any question or doubt. You could be so blind for him, if only you were anyone else. Someone more stupid. Someone more careless. Perhaps someone much like Jack himself, who flits and twirls through the world like some dreamy cloud that can't latch onto anything or be pinned down before he flutters away.

You can't reach him. And you're not sure why you want to at all.

The room is a swell of violins and Jack is swaying like a flower, looking distant and detached. His thoughts are somewhere else, you can tell. Lacie has drifted away from you to gaze out the window onto the night, and you know Jack is looking for her, not you. He's long neglected attempting to meet your eye in favor of finding someone else's. Yet you watch him still, cloaked in the shadow of the arching doorway as you lean stiffly against the wall, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. The ruckus of the ballroom makes you grit your teeth and wince whenever someone laughs too loudly or the violins' pitch rises too high. But Jack, heavens, Jack all but thrives in this environment. It's his home, all this motion and music and chatter. All this fakeness. He's a decoration, an ornament, something beautiful to look at which makes the room brighter and the people smile. A moving, breathing portrait. But completely, undeniably, chillingly vacant.

Jack seems to find Lacie, judging by the one hundred lanterns that suddenly come alight in his eyes. He bids the woman next to him some flighty goodbye before he's moving through the crowd and towards the window Lacie is leaning out of, her cursed eyes to the sky. But you can't look away from Jack. The sight of him both drains you and enthralls you. A quick survey of the room shows that everyone is looking at him, too, stealing glances and glimpses out the corner of their eye before going back to their conversations. Everyone is dazzled by him; everyone but Lacie, who doesn't even notice his presence until he taps her lightly on the shoulder and gives her that signature smile of his that makes your stomach hurt.

You're embarrassed for him. But the moment you realize you're holding your breath, that your heart is pounding, and that you haven't been able to turn your eyes away from him all night, you're more embarrassed for yourself. The only bitter sense of comfort you can find comes from knowing that whoever shares his bed tonight, it will not be you.


End file.
